


My Beloved Few

by BlossomsintheMist



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Bleeding Edge, Cooking, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Eating, Established Relationship, Food, Happy Tony Project, M/M, Mention of sex, Mentions of edwin jarvis, No Sex, Post-Civil War (Marvel), Project Happy Stark, Romantic Fluff, Suggestive Themes, Tony Stark Can Cook, You Gave Me A Home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 03:50:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6140607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlossomsintheMist/pseuds/BlossomsintheMist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Project Happy Stark: Bleeding Edge.  Tony and Steve have gotten together after the end of Civil War--even though Tony still can't quite believe it--and he wants to do something special.  Just because.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Beloved Few

**Author's Note:**

> “I am more modest now, but I still think that one of the pleasantest of all emotions is to know that I, I with my brain and my hands, have nourished my beloved few, that I have concocted a stew or a story, a rarity or a plain dish, to sustain them truly against the hungers of the world.”  
> ― M.F.K. Fisher
> 
> This fic is about eating. And cooking. Based on the idea that Tony can cook. There's . . . a lot of cooking.
> 
> By the way, I based the food Tony cooks on various recipes. You can find them at [this post on my tumblr](http://blossomsinthemist.tumblr.com/post/140381345730/i-based-the-food-tony-cooked-in-my-bleeding-edge).

At some point, Tony had ended up making his way to the kitchen. He’d really just been intending to fix himself a cup of coffee and maybe a snack, but once he was in there, looking through the refrigerator, he started getting ideas. He’d restocked the fridge, just because Steve was going to be staying with him the next couple of days, and he always ate like a horse, and the last thing Tony wanted was to see him going hungry. It had been a while since he cooked something, but suddenly it felt like the best idea in the world to fix a little something up for Steve before he came home.

 

He didn’t think about it too much, a little afraid that if he did, he’d convince himself it was the worst idea he’d ever had, just started pulling out ingredients and thinking about what to make. Back when they’d all been in the mansion, he’d cooked for Steve plenty of times, usually when it had been late at night and Steve got hungry and started to scrape together some attempt at a meal and neither of them wanted to wake Jarvis, but Tony knew he could do better and couldn’t resist making something to please Steve a little, maybe. Steve was always lavish with the praise, and seeing his eyes light up as he ate something Tony had made—well, it wasn’t a bad feeling. Steve would just eat whatever they had, even the saddest leftovers imaginable, and Tony just—how was he supposed to stand for that? With Steve’s enhanced metabolism—the least he needed was real food.

 

Real food. With that thought in his mind, Tony looked over their selections critically. Some meat, definitely. And he wanted to make dessert. He eyed the dark, dark 70% cocoa chocolate he’d thrown in at the last minute. Yes. Something with that. But dinner, first. Nothing too spicy—Steve didn’t go for much spice, and Tony could still remember his face turning redder and redder after his first couple of big bites of Thai food, years and years ago now. They had that pork tenderloin they’d picked up, that might work. He could throw it on a quick spinach salad—maybe a shallot vinaigrette with herbs, too, and some fruit with the pork? Nuts? He looked through the produce. The pears on the counter looked just about right, a little too firm still to eat plain but that would work well. Pickled red onions, and walnuts, and he’d grabbed some dried cranberries on a whim. Steve always looked at him oddly, but he liked snacking on them while he was working. Cook the shallots in with the pork, finish it in the oven?

 

Yeah. That would work.

 

Something else, too, though. Steve always ate a lot. A side, besides the salad, but—a soup, that would be good, warm and filling and simple, Steve would like that. They had some leeks, because Tony liked them. That would work for a start. And potatoes? Leek and potato soup—that sounded like a Steve thing. He could toast up some bread for croutons, too. That’d be a good side, to go along with the pork. He hoped Steve would like it. Steve would probably like it, right?

 

Tony pulled out the leeks and potatoes and started washing, peeling, and chopping. He’d do that part first. Steve should be home in about what, an hour? A little longer? That gave him some time, at least. He wasn’t the best at cutting and chopping—Jarvis had always tried to teach him to be more efficient, but he supposed it got the job done well enough.

 

Those had been some . . . good times, though. Better times than normal, when it came to his being a kid. Tony figured that was why being in the kitchen, trying to cook something, had always been sort of, well, relaxing for him. Jarvis had been in the kitchen, safe, and comforting, and warm, and always willing to answer Tony’s questions or show him how to do what he was doing before reminding him, gently, to finish his homework.

 

Tony didn’t cook too much for anyone other than himself, really, but he’d always—well, he liked it, when he had the time and the inclination. Seeing someone else eating, enjoying what he’d made for them—it was a good feeling. It made him sort of understand why Jarvis had never seemed to mind the cooking part of his job too much, at least. And the putting it together was a lot like working on something in his lab. It took just enough focus that it could actually be relaxing.

 

He found himself humming as he turned on the oven to preheat, then turned on the stove and poured some olive oil into a pan, and knew that it wasn’t just because of the good memories he associated with the task, either. It was the same light, buoyant, inexplicable good mood that had brought him to go through the refrigerator in the first place, that had made him impulsively decide this was a good idea. The same good mood that had suffused him since Steve had emerged from Tony’s own apartment’s shower that morning, and come back to the bedroom still glowing and damp and kissed him while he was still dragging himself awake and out of bed. He’d still been groggy and half asleep, but Steve’s mouth had tasted like mint and he hadn’t let Tony close his own lips against the kiss, soft and coaxing and insistent, despite Tony’s morning breath, and he’d squeezed Tony around the middle and smiled at him, and just, well, the whole day had been better after that, work and all.

 

Tony still couldn’t quite believe this was really happening. That Steve—that Steve could want him at all, let alone after everything, everything that had happened, everything that they’d done to each other; even if he—if he couldn’t remember, he _knew_ , he knew it had been awful, he knew he didn’t deserve this, didn’t deserve forgiveness, with a bone-deep certainty that ached in his chest deeper than the RT ever could, ever had, and yet—

 

And yet he had this, _they_ had this, Steve had looked at him, and wanted him, and reached out for him, and he was smiling at him and _happy_ , he seemed like he was happy, too. Steve had _wanted_ this, had pursued him, had slid his hand around the back of Tony’s neck like it fit just perfectly there, warm broad hand and fingers just lightly stroking through his hair and all, and leaned in to kiss him, and had been beaming like the sun coming out when he’d pulled away, and Tony had leaned in after him, had practically wanted to move to straddle him but had stopped himself—

 

Steve wanted him. It didn’t exactly feel like it made sense, but he couldn’t argue with that. It was—a trip, a wonderful, perfect trip, like a dream that was too good for him to ever have, whenever Steve looked at him and his face just _lit up_ , and he looked so happy, like he couldn’t believe his good fortune, like he thought Tony was too good to be true. Well, he had that backwards. Every time Steve looked at him and looked _happy_ , instead of tired, or tightly controlled, or flat, or angry, or sad, like the whole weight of the world was settling onto his shoulders just because of the reminder of Tony’s existence—every time, it was like Tony’s stomach was on a rollercoaster the way it swooped, and butterflies danced in his chest and belly, and he felt hot and cold at the same time, and lighter than air, like he was flying and could just keep flying up and up forever, and touch the stars, just like that. He loved Steve so much it should have been frightening, but instead he just felt lucky. Fantastically, incredibly lucky.

 

He started to sauté the leeks, realizing he was humming one of Steve’s old big band tunes. Seemed fitting enough. He found himself smiling, probably like an idiot, as he browned the leeks in the pan, then added the peeled and cubed potatoes. Well, Steve did that to him. He couldn’t find it in himself to care. It didn’t take long until he was covering it with the water and leaving it to simmer, and he turned his attention to the meat. He wanted to be sure to end up with a big enough portion to satisfy Steve. That was sort of one of the major things about cooking for the guy, and one of the things Tony enjoyed about it—that way he could make sure he got enough. He figured he’d make two. That way Steve could have about one and a half.

 

Tony made the dressing for the salad really quick, then set it aside and started on the meat. As far as Tony could tell, before he’d been frozen, Steve had never had a decently cooked cut of meat in his entire life. Not that Mrs. Rogers had been a terrible cook—well, compared to Jarvis, maybe, but Tony just got the idea she’d been overworked and resorted to what she knew, and then there’d been the war, and just—Steve really still seemed to expect his meat to be boiled into blandness or overcooked to the point that Tony could use it in his lab, even after all this time. Hopefully, though, Jarvis had taught Tony better than that.

 

Tony realized he was dancing a bit to the tune in his head as he stepped between pans. He bit his lip but couldn’t find the desire to stop himself. He figured he was feeling good, thinking of Steve—he might as well. He hummed to himself and practiced a few of the steps of the Charleston as he seasoned the meat and seared it on the stove, not too long, filling the room with the mouthwatering scent of cooking meat, keeping an eye on the vegetables, then added the shallots to the pan and shook it to cover them with the drippings from the meat, then stuck it in the oven to finish cooking. Luckily, he had a big sauté pan. There, he thought, and went back to the soup. The smell of the meat sizzling away and the shallots cooking down had been starting to make his stomach growl a little—well, he had come out to the kitchen in the first place because he was hungry. He just hoped Steve was hungry, too—but that was stupid, he knew Steve; the man was always hungry. Tony added nutmeg, salt, pepper, and some thyme to the soup, along with some coconut milk and cream he’d found in the fridge, then poured the hot vegetables carefully into a blender. When it was smooth and creamy, he returned it to the pan and set it to warm on a low heat. He figured he’d make some croutons for it as a garnish in the oven after the meat was done, just to make it a little extra something.

 

Tony thought that Steve would probably be getting back soon. He hoped he would, actually—it’d be nice if the food was still warm when Steve got back. And that everything had gone well, but even though Steve really hadn’t been supposed to tell him about his mission here, he’d shared enough that Tony didn’t really expect anything to go wrong. Still, he kept an eye on the meat while he started laying out the ingredients for dessert and setting out plain utensils. He was thinking about making a chocolate soufflé. They were more his weakness than Steve’s, but Steve liked them, too; at least, he was pretty sure. To start with, he got some of the heavy whipping cream he’d bought, thinking they might have hot chocolate some night and it would be a nice extra, and set about sugaring it and whisking it into whipped cream.

 

When it was done he stuck it back in the fridge to wait, and by that time, the meat seemed about ready, and he was satisfied with the temperature on the meat thermometer. He pulled the meat out and set it on the cutting board to let it rest while he turned up the heat on the stove and set the sauté pan back over it, pouring the dressing into it and mixing it with the drippings and shallots already in the pan. He let it just boil, then poured it over the spinach he’d set out, adding in the fruit and tossing it, then poured the walnuts into the sauté pan and started to toast them. It all smelled pretty damn good to him, so he hoped Steve liked it, too. While he was waiting for the walnuts to toast, he turned the oven on again, pulling out the bread to chop it into cubes, added olive oil and salt, then had to stop to find a baking tray. He spread them out on it, then slid them into the oven, too, keeping a close eye on them even as he finished with the walnuts and added them to the salad. The room smelled pretty good, and he took a deep, satisfied breath of it.

 

Tony had just pulled out the croutons, then finished with a quick rinse of the pans and starting on slicing the meat, when he heard someone at the door. He was pretty sure it was Steve, and if it was Steve, it was almost ridiculously perfect timing (which was, admittedly, very Steve), but he didn’t move to open the door—he didn’t want to be that guy who made the assumption and got messed up by some two-bit villain just because he took the knock at the door for granted. He even pulled the armor out around his off hand, just enough to form the gauntlet up past his wrist. But then Steve was fiddling with the door with the key Tony had given him just a few days ago, and it swung open, and there he was, no supervillains in sight. Tony let the gauntlet disappear again, felt himself relax, a smile start to tug at the edges of his lips just at the sight of him.

 

Steve was a little scuffed, his hair a little ruffled, and he had the strained look he’d been sporting after a lot of missions since he’d taken on his new role, not physically tired so much as mentally, a little tight around the eyes. And, like always, he was still one of the best things Tony had ever seen, from the ruffled strands of his tousled blond hair to the heavy steel-tipped boots on his feet. He had just enough time to feel a flicker of nerves start in his belly that Steve might not be hungry, or this might all be too much, over the top, or that Steve might not like it, or have already made plans, or would have preferred something else, before Steve stepped inside, closed the door behind him, took a deep, appreciative breath, and broke into a warm, tired smile even as the automatic lock clicked in behind him. “Something smells amazing,” he said.

 

Some of the tension that had been steadily building in Tony’s chest and stomach relaxed, and he managed a wide version of what he thought of as his most charming smile for Steve. “Does it?” he asked.

 

“Absolutely amazing,” Steve confirmed. He pulled the wristband for the hard light shield off his wrist and ran a hand back through his hair, then smiled at Tony. It was the charming, private, crooked smile that made Tony’s stomach clench and flip over in his chest, made his mouth go dry.

 

“Well,” he managed, still giving Steve his best smile. “I made dinner. That might be why.”

 

Steve set the wristband on the table nearest the door and crossed the room. He stopped in front of Tony, even as he finished with the meat and set the knife down, just in time for Steve to reach out, let his hands rest on Tony’s forearms, skimming them in their fingerless leather gloves up over his arms, his elbows, his biceps. “You sure are a sight for sore eyes, Shellhead,” he said, and smiled again, the sweet, sheepishly happy one. His hair fell forward onto his forehead a bit and Tony felt his heart squeeze with a tight, happy ache.

 

“Same goes for you, honey bun,” Tony said, feeling his voice go softer, quieter, even as he leaned in, and then Steve’s lips were on his. The kiss was soft, breathless, warm and damply wet with breath between their mouths, even though it only lasted a few seconds before Steve leaned his forehead against Tony’s and smiled again, his eyes slipping closed.

 

“So,” he said. “You made dinner?”

 

Tony had to pull his mind back in order from the millions of directions his thoughts had immediately scattered to upon Steve kissing him, the warm steadiness of the hands still on his arms, the spreading pool of light, wonderful heat that had started in his chest, melting his brain and turning him slow and dizzily distracted. “Um,” he said. “Yeah. Actually just finished? Well, I was going to make dessert after, but with the dinner part.” He took a deep breath, let his own hands settle on Steve’s sides, skim up over his waist and along his sturdy torso. “That sound good to you?” he breathed, not quite sure if he should try for seductive or not.

 

Steve smiled, and then his hand was curling around the side of Tony’s neck, leather and warm, strong fingers, and he tilted Tony’s head into another kiss. Tony sighed, let his mouth go soft for it, welcomed the taste of Steve in, the warmth, the blunt push of his tongue, leaned forward into him. The kiss lasted for long, warm, heady moments before Steve was pulling away again, breath coming in sweet, heavy pants over Tony’s lips and chin. “Yeah,” he said. “It sounds just about perfect to me. It smells amazing.”

 

“It’s a pork tenderloin with a shallot dressing and a spinach salad. With, uh, dried cranberries, pears, and walnuts,” he said. “And some leek-potato soup. With croutons.” He looked toward the counter. “I just need to put it together and get it on the plates. I made plenty. Hoped I could tempt you. I, um. I should get it.”

 

Steve smiled, wide and warm and with that sweet curve to it that Tony loved so much, and rubbed a thumb along Tony’s jaw, over his cheek. “Sure,” he said. “While you do that, I’ll get changed, sound good?”

 

“Yeah!” Tony said. “Uh, yeah. That sounds perfect, peaches.”

 

Steve grinned and brushed a kiss to Tony’s temple. “Can’t wait to taste what you made for me,” he mumbled into Tony’s hair. Tony was sure he felt the shivery thrill of it, warm and curling, in his spine, and all the way down to his toes.

 

“Just hope it lives up to the hype,” he managed in a fairly airy tone, and brushed one more quick kiss firm over Steve’s lips before he turned back to the counter. Steve laughed in the way that made the room feel warmer in the best way, and ruffled Tony’s hair, grinning even wider as he mock-growled and swatted at him for it.

 

“It always does,” Steve said. “I love eating your food, Tony.”

 

Tony’s face suddenly felt very warm, and he turned his attention to tossing the salads and arranging the meat on the plates. “It’s not the best in the city, but it’ll have to do,” he said.

 

“Hmm,” was all Steve said, but then he was headed out of the room, probably to find his clothes. Tony was both a little disappointed that he hadn’t stripped right there, and relieved—it probably saved him accidentally cutting off his own thumb or something. He wasn’t eager to find out if Extremis was still working enough to grow it back, or if the Bleeding Edge armor could help out there.

 

He had the plates and bowls set up, croutons in the soup, and glasses on the table, when Steve came back out with freshly damp hair, a scrubbed-pink face, and his blue star t-shirt over a pair of loose lounge pants. “Okay if I dress down?” he asked, smiling a little.

 

Tony looked down at his own slacks and button-down with the sleeves rolled up, still rubbing his newly-washed hands with a dish-towel, and smiled a little sheepishly. “Casual’s fine,” he said. “Definitely not a formal thing. Just a—a.” Err, was there a way to put this that wasn’t weird?   “A welcome to Seattle thing.”

 

“I feel a little spoiled, mister,” Steve said. “A fella could get used to this, you know?”

 

“Not going to cook for you all the time,” Tony said. “But if you ever have any special requests . . . .”

 

Steve smiled at him as he sat down and reached for his napkin. “How’d I get so lucky, huh?” he asked.

 

Tony felt very warm, all over, like his hair was probably standing on end with it. “What do you want to drink?” he managed to ask without even fumbling over it too much. “We have some lemon Pellegrino, I think?”

 

“That sounds just perfect,” Steve said.   He was still smiling at Tony, and his eyes looked so soft. Tony stumbled over to the fridge and busied himself getting the bottle out, opening it up, and pouring it for both of them.

 

He left it on the table, and sat down. “Well,” he said. “Dig in.”

 

Steve was still looking at him. “It is, though,” he said. His eyes were still all blue and soft, clear and bright as the sky on a perfectly clear day, the kind that made Tony want to do nothing but fly and fly.

 

“Uh,” Tony said, feeling a little wrong-footed, and still warm and flustered by that look, what Steve had said. Had he missed something? Or—“Sorry, what?”

 

“It is the best food in the city,” Steve said. “Least, it is to me.”

 

Tony felt _very_ warm now, and he thought he might be smiling, soft and touched and stupid. “You’re biased,” he said.

 

“Sure am,” Steve replied, a quick little amused quirk of his lips there and gone, and then he was reaching for his fork. Tony reached for his own, tried not to look like he was watching as Steve cut a piece of the meat heaped onto his plate and brought it to his mouth.

 

Steve wasn’t that good an actor, and the way his eyes brightened, the pure pleasure on his face, there was no way he was faking that. Tony felt himself finally relax, satisfaction flowing through him. Steve really did like it.

 

“Oh, wow, Tony,” Steve said. “Oh, well, goddamn. This is good.” He took another bite, this time with a heaping helping of spinach, fruit, and walnuts on it along with the pork. “This is so damn good.”

 

Tony smiled and looked down at his own plate. “Don’t forget the soup,” he reminded Steve, and started in on his own.

 

It was, actually, really good. The vinaigrette had turned out just right, the meat was tender, and the rest of the flavors worked. The soup fit with the meal, too, and it was nice and creamy, and it just felt . . . wonderful to watch Steve devouring it and then going back for a second bowl. Tony grinned to himself and kept cutting up his own meat. Not bad. Not bad at all.

 

“Wow, Tony, this is good,” Steve said again, sighing after taking a big swallow of his sparkling water.

 

Tony hid his smile by looking down at his salad and piling a big bite on his fork, then eating it. “It isn’t half bad,” he allowed, once he’d swallowed.

 

Steve snorted. “Isn’t half bad,” he said. “Sure. You just cook a meal that belongs in a five star restaurant—”

 

Tony laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far,” he said. It was hard to stop sneaking glances at Steve’s face, laughing and smiling.

 

“You wouldn’t,” Steve said. “How do people ever get the idea that you’re full of yourself, huh?”

 

Tony laughed as Steve reached out and squeezed his hand. “Haven’t you heard of false modesty?” he asked. “Besides, I try not to overstate my talents when I’m _not_ an expert. It’s just that I’m an expert on most things.”

 

“There we go,” Steve said, and grinned, squeezing his hand.

 

“Can’t have you thinking I’m not full of myself,” Tony said. “I am incredibly full of myself, thank you.”

 

Steve’s smile widened, and he winked, bringing Tony’s hand up to his lips to press a kiss to his knuckles. “You could be full of me, later,” he mumbled against the skin, but his smile was wide, crookedly self-satisfied.

 

Tony gave a gasp of mock shock. “Steven Rogers,” he said. “Was that an innuendo?”

 

“If you want,” Steve said, turned Tony’s hand over, and pressed a kiss to his palm. “Least I can do to show how much I,” he kissed Tony’s pulse, making him want to shiver with the tingling warmth that shot through him, “appreciate your efforts. On my behalf.”

 

“Damn, Steve,” Tony breathed, and let his fingers spread out, brush along the back of Steve’s wrist, stroking lightly.

 

Steve’s smile widened. “What can I say,” he murmured against the more sensitive skin of Tony’s wrist. “I’m a simple guy.”

 

“The way to your cock is through your stomach, huh?” Tony murmured with a grin.

 

“Something like that,” Steve said, laughing, and laying another kiss against Tony’s wrist before he let go. “I would have said heart,” he added, and almost stopped Tony’s right in his chest, before he remembered how to swallow. And also breathe.

 

“Well, that,” he managed to get out, “sounds good. But you should finish your dinner first. I still want to make dessert.”

 

“That sounds good to me, too,” Steve said, and he said it so earnestly that Tony wasn’t sure if it was an innuendo or not, even though he was still grinning at him like that.

 

“Whatever you’re thinking, sweetcheeks, I want my chocolate soufflé first,” Tony told him.

 

“I never said anything about any other kind of dessert,” Steve said, but his eyes were dancing.

 

“Sure you didn’t,” Tony said. The inside of his chest felt very soft and very warm, in a way that wasn’t quite an ache, as he took another bite of his own salad.

 

He finished before Steve, because Steve had two servings, so he cleared his plates over to the sink and dropped a tentative kiss on Steve’s hair, more tentative than he’d wanted it to be. “Now,” he said, “I make dessert, and you finish up.”

 

“And watch,” Steve said, reaching up and rubbing one hand along Tony’s hip. His touch was warm, made heat spread through Tony from where it lingered through his slacks.

 

“Next time,” Tony said, “I’ll wear a frilly apron, just for you.”

 

“No need for that,” Steve said, fiddling with the end of Tony’s belt. “I like you just the way you are.” He smiled a little and added, “not that I’d say no.”

 

“I could ditch the slacks,” Tony pointed out. He combed his fingers back through Steve’s hair before he regretfully moved away and back over to the counter and turned the oven on to preheat.

 

When he looked back at Steve, he was very red in the cheeks, and his ears. Tony was betting the back of his neck was red, too, and the evidence of that blush made him smile to himself, feel a little pleased, somehow. “Yeah,” Steve said. “Um, okay.”

 

“Like that idea, Commander?” Tony teased, even as he got out the ingredients for the soufflé, buttered the inside of the ramikins, and started mixing.

 

“I, uh, still wouldn’t say no,” Steve said.

 

Tony grinned down into his mixing bowl. “Logged and recorded,” he told him. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

Steve brought his own plates to the sink sometime later, and slid a warm arm around Tony’s waist, making him jump and shiver a bit. “You know you don’t have to do that,” he murmured warm into his ear. “I don’t need dessert.”

 

“I know,” Tony said. “I’d like to have some, though.”

 

“Well, all right,” Steve breathed in his ear, against his hair. He rubbed gently at Tony’s back, along his side, and Tony shivered, tried not to melt into it, tried to stay focused, and really mostly failed. “It’s good to be here,” Steve said low, and his voice was just the tiniest bit rough. “It’s good to come home to you, Iron Man.”

 

Something seized up inside Tony in the best way, something that might have stuttered to a stop and broken some other time, but now felt—felt confusing, and hard to process, and—difficult, but warm and heavy, the best kind of weight in his chest, underneath his breastbone, steadying and real, like the weight that kept his brain working, kept his heart beating. “Yeah?” he managed to murmur, and his own voice came out a little rough.

 

“Yeah,” Steve murmured.

 

Tony poured the batter into his pans. It seemed strange, when he thought about it, but it had always been true—being there, with Steve, together, for the both of them to come back to, that had always been—well, it had always been there to steer him. To fall back on, kind of like a lodestone.

 

He slid the soufflés into the oven, turned it on, and then turned in Steve’s arms. He put a hand, very deliberately, on Steve’s side, letting the other rest against his, but he couldn’t quite look at him. “I’m lucky you feel that way,” he said, and it came out hoarse and quiet.

 

“Lucky, or just the man I couldn’t walk away from?” Steve asked. His lips brushed against Tony’s forehead, a curling lock of his hair, and he reached up to rub at Tony’s cheek with his fingers. “You’ve got a smudge of chocolate right here,” he said.

 

“Damn,” Tony said, and scowled. “Really?”

 

Steve nodded and brought his fingers away, showing them to him, and sure enough, it was true. Steve sucked it off them like it was nothing, and Tony gulped, distracted as heat shot to his groin. Steve licked his thumb and rubbed at Tony’s cheek a little more. “Yeah,” he said. “Never could, you know.”

 

They clearly were not talking about chocolate. “Yeah, well,” Tony said, and made a face, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to point out that he didn’t deserve that. Instead, he slid his arms around Steve’s waist, pressed a kiss to the hinge of his jaw. “Just doing my part.”

 

“You do so much more than that, Tony,” Steve said, into his hair, and Tony swallowed tightly.

 

Not enough, never enough. But maybe it could be, someday. Maybe he could make it enough, make it right, make it _work_ , with Steve.

 

He was still so lucky. That Steve wanted him at all, somehow. That he wanted him after everything. That he hadn’t walked away.

 

He kissed Steve’s temple, the curve of his ear, then pulled back, tried to put on a smile. “You know what they say,” he said. “A house is not a home unless one of you can make a chocolate soufflé that doesn’t deflate. Which—we’ll find out soon enough.”

 

Steve just laughed, and slid his arms around Tony from behind when he moved to check on the soufflé through the window of the oven. “You,” he said, laughing into Tony’s hair, “are such a card.”

 

“Takes one to know one,” Tony said. He stopped fighting it, stopped fighting Steve, just—just stopped, just leaned back against Steve’s chest and let the soufflés bake, let himself enjoy it, let himself feel it. Steve was steady and warm and strong, and his arms could not have fit around Tony any more perfectly, could not have felt any better.

 

This, Tony thought with a touch of awe, this was just about perfect. He leaned his head against Steve’s shoulder and sighed, kissed Steve’s cheek.

 

The soufflés did not collapse. Actually, they were perfect. Especially with the whipped cream. Tony was thrilled. Jarvis would have been so proud. When Steve kissed him after, his mouth tasted like chocolate. Tony wrapped his arms around his shoulders and leaned into the kiss with a hum of pleasure.

 

“Shower sex?” he asked, against Steve’s lips, licking off the last of the whipped cream from the side of his mouth.

 

Steve’s cheeks turned warm. “Shower sex,” he said, smiling despite his blush.

 

Tony smiled back.


End file.
